Folklife: Lebanese bellies draw big numbers

It’s something like 10 after 10 Friday night at the Texas Folklife Festival when we arrive at Stage Four to try and take quality pics of the Lebanese Folkdancers. We’re too late.

The audience is packed to the portable stage’s edge. Not everyone, but a good number of people have cameras out. The best spot is front row, stage left and there’s no way I’m getting in there. In that little corner alone, there’s a consumer-quality video camera fastened to a monopod, a couple of point-and-shoots and an SLR of some sort. Behind me, a cowboy (hat and boots and all) fires away on his camera phone while taking a drag off a cigarette. The various tent poles and support cables obstruct long-distance shots. You’re either up-close or SOL.

In the official Folklife brochure, they are called the St. George Lebanese Folkdancers. If I had been more of a journalist rather than a spectator, I would have confirmed my assumption that they are of the same St. George Maronite Catholic Church, whose parishioners are grilling the kabobs and mixing the tabouli at the Lebanese food booth opposite the stage.

The dancers themselves are beautiful to watch and nearly accomplish actual hypnosis on the packed house.

The outfits vary in detail, but the dancers all wear the basic sleeveless tops, hip-hugging long skirts, belts with shiny ornamentation and smiles that aren’t so much seductive as they are Vegas showgirl-like  everything glimmers under the hot stage lights. They also go barefoot. And each carries around a veil, which appear to wrap around the neck for the most part, but, as a real crowd-pleaser, are sometimes stretched high above their heads before entering another phase of the dance.

And they’re good. Each snapping and rolling their hips in complete unison, like a bunch of Shakira clones.

In one moment, the group uniformly executes a move I can only describe as the Breast Jiggle  you know the one, the chest puffed out and upward, wrists and elbows cocked to the side, each shoulder incessantly swinging forward one after the other. (Have you ever tried it. I just did. It’s really hard to do.)

As a spectator, your eye (mine, at least) goes straight to the belly (that’s where all the action is), then the face, then the group as a whole, then the audience. It’s when I realize I’m doing this that I bring up the topic of the dancers’ ages. With Hip Snapping and Breast Jiggling occurring left and right, I want assurances that any naughty thought that involuntary sparks in my synapse won’t land me in the federal penitentiary.

We saw two groups and the consensus is that one was comprised of women in their late teens to early 20s, while the other was of late-20s to early- or even mid-30s. Either way, they looked young. Too young, some of them.

There were actual dancer dudes, too. Four of them. I couldn’t tell you what they wore  I didn’t jot down any notes or take any pictures. I can tell you there was definitely no disputing that these young men were teenagers. (At one point it’s only guys dancing, and it goes on and on and I kept thinking what I would say to the program director: “Hey, pull’em already. You’re losing them [the audience].”)

It was then that I became focused on the picture-takers. The guy picture-takers were taking pictures of the guy dancers. But why? My theory was that it was all about maintaining the appearance of impartiality and consistency in documenting the event. The whole we’re-here-for-the-culture notion. That these are incredibly gorgeous young women throwing their hips at you, gyrating at you, smiling at you has nothing to do with how, in order to snag your primo seat, you sat through the 9:30 p.m.-slotted De Texas Klompendansers. (Oh look. Up next are belly dancers. Lebanese, looks like. Somehow I missed that one on the brochure. Oh well, I’m already here. Might as well take a few photos… you know, since I’m already here.) To be fair, I would have done the same exact thing.

Hours after the spectacle, the topic came up unprovoked in conversation at a downtown bar.